The Archenemy
by ThePro-LifeCatholic
Summary: "I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having." "And what's that?" Mycroft pauses, glancing down at his umbrella and pair of black slacks, absent-mindedly poking at a puddle between his shoes. It makes him think of ocean waves crashing against ships, of salty sea air and pirate escapades. "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his archenemy."
**Written while listening to:**

 **"Comes and Goes (In Waves)" – Greg Laswell**

 **"Shake it Off/Pompeii" – Mike Thompkins**

 **"Disaster Hearts" – I Fight Dragons**

 **See the ending author's note for source of inspiration.**

 **God bless and have a great day (or night)!**

 **ThePro-LifeCatholic**

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 **Disclaimer: I don't own** _ **Sherlock**_ **, its characters, or the particular prompt used for this idea.**

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Waves crashed against the worn, barnacle-covered sides of the wooden boat. The air smelled of salt and fish; a handful of birds circled overhead, tucking in their wings and plummeting into the dark blue water beneath. When they came back up again, their bills were clamped around their lunch: flopping fish that they snapped up and gulped down with a single jerk of the head, the wriggling lumps traveling down their throats to their stomachs. Harsh rays of sunlight beat down on the warped, brown boards of the main deck. Its blistering heat chased the fish into the depths of the ocean, kept the rats from creeping from their hiding places among the ship's ration supply.

In the crows' nest of the ship, a solitary figure was keeping a steady lookout, despite the glaring sun shining directly overhead. Like his boat, the young man was small but sturdy. His feet were planted firmly apart to hold himself up as the ground pitched back and forth, rocking in time with the rhythm of the ocean. He was chewing on his lip, hands gripping the smooth surface of a gilded telescope. Once, twice, he turned in a full circle, scouring the blue expanse that stretched on forever on all sides. Sunlight sparkled on the surface of the waves, shimmering like streamers. He swallowed, his parched throat stinging with sea salt. Finally, having enough of staring at water, he slammed the telescope shut. Tucking it into a brown satchel fixed securely about his waist, he grabbed a thick cord and leapt from the edge of the nest. A rush of cool air met him head-on, blowing the tangled mess of black curls out of his face.

He hit the deck with a _*thunk*_ , executing several somersaults before standing up and brushing off his shirt. His brown leather boots clunked as he strode across the deck. Pulling a handkerchief from his pouch, he tied it around his uncovered head. In a matter of seconds he had reached the steering wheel. Taking firm hold, he spun it quickly, rocking backwards as the ship jerked and leaned to the left.

"It can't be long now," he muttered darkly, squinting out at the horizon. "We've been searching for so long. Surely the treasure must be somewhere nearby!" For, of course, the young shipman, alone in the middle of the ocean with a vessel that was all but unmanned, was none other than Black Will. His very name was enough to inspire terror in the most fearless of hearts. It was rumored that he traveled by himself, and had no need of assistance from a crew. This was true…mostly.

"Redbeard!" Black Will shouted, his voice carrying over the whistling of the wind, "Where are you, you scoundrel? I thought you were keeping watch out duty!"

In response to the pirate's outburst, a curly-haired terrier bounded from the ship's hold. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, and Will could see that it was as dry as his own throat.

"You were in the kitchen again, weren't you?" Will sounded stern, but his eyes sparked with merriment. "Naughty dog. Stealing from rations earns a swim with the sharks."

Redbeard, dismissive of the threat of imminent death, leapt towards his captain, knocking him onto the ground. He then proceeded to cover his face in wet kisses.

"Stop, Redbeard!" Will ordered amid gasps of laughter. He shoved the wriggling mass of red hair off of his chest and stood up, smoothing down his outfit and checking for his satchel and cutlass.

"You're a rubbish pirate," he told the dog. "You know that, don't you?"

Redbeard cocked his head to the side, smiling in the confused and amused way that dogs sometimes do. Then he pricked one ear up almost on end, sniffing the wind. He jumped up, barking ferociously and spinning in circles. Black Will was taken by surprise.

"What is it, boy?" he asked earnestly. He knew that his right-hand-hound could sense oncoming dangers more quickly than himself. And other people wondered why he had chosen to have a dog instead of crew.

Redbeard pointed his nose south, his body quivering with poorly-contained excitement. Crouching down next to the dog, Black Will fumbled with his telescope, finally managing to steady his shaking fingers and get a good look through the glass lens.

There! On the horizon, slicing through the foam like a knife, another ship was racing towards his own little vessel. The sides were painted white, the wide sails displaying an emblem of a red shield with a golden owl – wings outspread – perched on top of it. The ship was spotless; it seemed as if it had never before touched water, nor made a voyage. Muttering under his breath, Will hurriedly stashed his telescope.

"I should have known," he murmured, eyes still fixed on the ship, "That icy-hearted good-for-nothing. Coming to take my treasure, are you?!" The last phrase was uttered in a shout, and Black Will shook his fist at the oncoming boat, as if to challenge it. "Well, you'll certainly regret the day you chose to cross paths with the infamous Black Will! Come, Redbeard! Ready the artillery!"

With his canine companion trotting at his heels, the pirate captain raced to where his cannons were positioned, ready-and-waiting for any sign of danger.

"Quickly, now, quickly…" Will talked to himself as he loaded the powder and cannonball.

"FIRE ONE!" he screamed, lying flat on the ground and plugging his ears. There was a tremendous _*BOOM*_ and the cannonball soared gracefully through the air, aimed directly at the oncoming ship…

"HEY!"

Mycroft slammed his book shut, glaring across the living room. His brother peeked at him from behind a rickety fortress of cushions that he had built on the couch.

"Looks like we made a successful hit, Redbeard," Sherlock continued, turning his attention to the household pet. "But the real question is: how much damage did it do?"

Mycroft glowered and kicked the cushion – the very cushion that his brother had thrown _directly at his head_ only a matter of seconds ago – across the wooden floor. "I'm _trying_ to read, Sherlock. And what would Mummy say about you using the couch as ammunition?"

"Mummy's not here," was the answer Mycroft got. "'Sides, she wouldn't mind, anyway." Sherlock placed some pillows on top of his construction.

Mycroft sighed loudly and rubbed the temples of his head. Why did nine-year-olds have to be so _difficult?_

"Could you at least not throw your…cannonballs at me?" He asked. Surely that was a reasonable compromise?

"I can't," Sherlock replied, standing up on the couch and picking up a pillow. He tossed it into the air and caught it. Mycroft watched his younger brother do this several times before opening his book and flipping to the page he had been on. Hardly had he begun to read when another pillow smashed into his arms, causing the book to fly across the room.

" _William Holmes_!" he yelled, "Can't you just leave me in peace?! Why on earth do you feel a need to include me in your…silly make-believe? Pretending is-"

"It's _not_ for babies!" Sherlock interjected, crossing his arms. "And besides, my crew and I need someone to fight. Games aren't fun if there isn't any danger!"

"Oh, really? You and what crew?"

"Redbeard, of course!" Sherlock promptly replied. He slid off the couch and wrapped his arms around the dog's neck. "He's better company than any person. And he cleverer too. He's got keener senses."

Mycroft couldn't help a small smile. The reasoning behind his younger brother's choice of companion was surprisingly sensible. And he didn't seem at all bothered by the fact that Redbeard couldn't steer a ship or raise sails or drop anchor. With a thoughtful expression, the elder Holmes picked up his book and dusted it off.

"Alright; I see your point. But you still haven't explained why you're throwing things at me."

"You're the only one here," Sherlock pointed out. " _Obviously."_ He rolled his eyes and huffed loudly. "And besides, you're the captain of _The Observer_ , and the sworn archenemy of Black Will."

" _The Observer?_ " Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Archenemy?"

"Yep." Sherlock nodded emphatically. He pulled a wooden sword out of his belt, which was strapped around his waist and gave it a few practice swings. "He's called Ice Blade, and he's one of the most feared pirates in the whole world."

"And why, if I may ask, is he called 'Ice Blade'?"

"'Cause he's a cold cutthroat who has no mercy for his opponents."

Mycroft was slightly taken aback by the gruesome character which his younger brother envisioned him as. "Does this Ice Blade fellow like books?"

"Oh, yes," Sherlock immediately responded, pacing back-and-forth on the couch as he spoke, "He steals only the most expensive books and adds them to his massive library. The treasure I'm looking for now has some of the oldest books in history stashed with it. That's why Ice Blade's ship is on my tail."

"Really?" Mycroft asked. He moved across the room, setting the book he had been reading on the bookshelf. As he walked back over to the couch, Sherlock and Redbeard kept their gaze fixed on him, tense and waiting. In Sherlock's eyes could be seen a glimmer, small but bright. There was a plea there, an undying flicker of hope, of longing. Mycroft couldn't ignore it.

"Well, then," he said, reaching down and grabbing the nearest cushion. "If the treasure is to be found, I suppose I'll have to make sure _The Observer_ is the ship that gets there first!"

Sherlock drew forth his sword, leaping from the protection of his fort with a cry. Almost as soon as he had left the couch, he was down on the ground. His older brother towered over him, slamming the pillow down on his head again and again. As Sherlock attempted to shield his face, Mycroft leaned forward and snatched the sword from his hands.

"Not so confident are we now, eh Black Will?" he questioned in a booming voice. Sherlock wriggled backward, grabbing a pillow and ducking behind it.

"Now I'm shielded!" he yelled. "Your sword is no match against metal!"

"Try me." Mycroft sounded smug. "In the end you'll be the one to fall, Will."

"Why's that?"

"Because your fighting pattern is so predictable," Ice Blade explained. "If I were you, I'd give up now."

"Never!" Will exclaimed, still curled up underneath the cushion. "Abandoning ship…that's mutiny...that's worse than death…Redbeard…help…!"

The dog raced around the two, bounding into the air and barking joyously, his tail thumping hard on the floor. Around the two boys, the couches and chairs morphed into ships, sails filled with sea air. Birds called overhead, and there was a tremendous _*SPLASH*_ as cannonballs hit the foam-crested waves, churning like boiling water in one of their mother's large cooking pots.

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 _"I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."_

 _John Watson cocked his head to one side, fingers tapping lightly against his cane. His other hand remained at his side, limp and completely steady. "And what's that?"_

 _"An enemy," was the concise reply. John's flummoxed expression was quickly smoothed out into a blank look. But Mycroft had caught that moment of surprise and uncertainty. He had to actually focus on masking a smile by looking down at his spotless black shoes and matching black umbrella._

 _"An enemy?"_

 _"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his_ _ **archenemy**_ _." He paused a moment, his thoughts wandering back through the years, to happier times. Quickly though, he forced himself back to the present. There was little use in dwelling on childhood fantasies._

 _"He does love to be dramatic."_

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 **This was inspired by a post I saw on Pinterest with the theory relating "archenemy" with Mycroft's role as Sherlock's foe during their make-believe adventures as pirates.**


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